Chase laughed softly. “Share a boat with you, Sharpe? He’d rather sprout wings and fly.”

“I wouldn’t mind sharing a boat with her,” Sharpe said, staring at the Lady Grace who was gazing fixedly ahead as a score of beggars whimpered a safe distance from the coachman’s stinging whip.

“My dear Sharpe,” Chase said, watching the carriage draw away, “you will be sharing that lady’s company for at least four months and I doubt you will even see her. Lord William claims she suffers from delicate nerves and is averse to company. I had her on board the Pucelle for near a month and might have seen her twice. She sticks to her cabin, or else walks the poop at night when no one can accost her, and I will wager you a month of your wages to a year of mine that she will not even know your name by the time you reach England.”

Sharpe smiled. “I don’t wager.”

“Good for you,” Chase said. “Like a fool I played too much whist in the last month. I promised my wife I wouldn’t plunge heavily, and God punished me for it. Dear me, what a fool I am! I played almost every night between Calcutta and here and lost a hundred and seventy guineas to that rich bastard. My own fault,” he admitted ruefully, “and I won’t succumb again.” He reached out to touch the wood of the table top as if he did not trust his own resolve. “But cash is always short, isn’t it? I’ll just have to capture the Revenant and earn myself some decent prize money.”

“You’ll manage that,” Sharpe said comfortingly.

Chase smiled. “I do hope so. I fervently hope so, but once in a while, Sharpe, the damned Frogs throw up a real seaman and the Revenant is in the hands of Capitaine Louis Montmorin. He’s good, his men are good and his ship is good.”

“But you’re British,” Sharpe said, “so you must be better.”